


Those Neon Hours

by aurevell



Series: Those Neon Hours [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Diner AU?, Left Hand Peter Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Sort of mob boss Peter Hale, but set in a diner, kind of a coffee shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-23 15:17:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurevell/pseuds/aurevell
Summary: From the back of the Hale family diner, left hand Peter manages the pack's blossoming mafia empire into the wee hours of the morning. Some university student's been doing his homework in a window booth until past two a.m., but Peter doesn't think the guy iscertifiablycrazy until he approaches Peter's table.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Those Neon Hours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846468
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1172





	Those Neon Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the Russian translation [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9804856)!

By the time the stranger finally heads over to Peter’s booth in the back, Peter’s been watching him practically all night. 

The werewolf prides himself on knowing the diner’s comings and goings. It’s what’s kept the Hale pack alive and in business this long, what keeps their citywide criminal endeavors afloat. He’s got a sixth sense when it comes to things that stick out. 

And the stranger sticks out. In a dim restaurant teeming with rambunctious drunks, overloud post-party friend groups, and frazzled delivery drivers shoving aside vacant chairs, he hunches quietly over a spread of papers at a window booth. And it’s his fifth time here in two weeks, always in the earliest hours of the morning, when the brightest light in the place is the neon glow of the _Moonrise Diner_ sign that hangs on the other side of the glass. Erica’s the on-duty waitress, and though Peter’s seen her cleanly snap a spine without a second thought, she’s all good-natured smiles around their mystery kid.

Erica shrugs when Peter asks what the stranger is up to. “Same stuff as last time, boss. Looks like some other language, but I can’t really tell. He’s in college, apparently, and you know _that_ isn’t my scene.” She flips her blonde ponytail over her shoulder, frowning. “Why? Should we be worried?”

Peter grunts, and Erica correctly interprets this both as a _no_ and as a signal to make herself scarce. On her next trip from the kitchen, though, she brings him another coffee—maybe because she knows what he looks like when he’s fixating on something. 

With great effort, Peter funnels his attention back to the finance documents layered on the table. At half-past one in the morning, Derek and Boyd stop by on their way out to patrol, bearing news of a potential protection racket the Argent family’s stirring up out by the docks. Talia stops by to nag him about his sleeping habits on her way out for the night. When they’re all gone, Peter spends another half-hour delving into the newspaper to sneer at the latest details of Ennis’s parole bid. 

Through it all, the presence of the stranger distracts him. When the kid’s food arrives, he wolfs it down like he hasn’t eaten in ages. He glances up to find Peter looking at him—but unlike when their eyes have met in recent nights, he grins before he looks away. 

Unsettling.

A few minutes later, the kid pushes away his empty plate. Peter’s stopped pretending to work on anything else, instead watching him gather his papers into a backpack and set a few bills onto the table. Then, instead of heading outside as usual, the guy takes a deep breath and strides toward the back of the restaurant, bypassing both the bar and bathroom.

_No one_ approaches Peter’s table. At least, no one outside of the pack. Those who know who he is are too smart to be here, and they’d be terrified to come close if they were. Everyone else stays away because, as Cora once put it, he “gives off a certain vibe.” And she’s not wrong. Peter knows what he looks like: the attractive cut of his face somehow only highlights the fact that he’s a nightmare wrapped in a grey suit. Scowling, terse, and potentially murderous. 

Now, he observes the stranger coolly, his nerves humming with rare interest rather than suspicion. This close, Peter can see light dustings of moles stretching across the guy’s face and pale neck. He’s lanky, but not in an unattractive way, with amber eyes that glint in the glow of the pendant light over the table.

“Hi,” he says, and his heartbeat is a little off, a little on edge. “This is kinda random, but I’ve seen you here before, and I guess I was kind of curious. I mean, we seem to be the only people who’re still here at this time who, uh…” he glances behind him, lost for words.

Peter looks as well. The dim restaurant thrums with life around them in spite of the ungodly hour: a couple laughs hysterically over the songs on the jukebox, a handful of girls fresh from the Hales’ nearby nightclub huddle sleepily over their table, and drunks slur insults at each other in the corner. Isaac scrutinizes the last group from behind the bar, eyes half-lidded, in case he needs to intervene. 

“Who aren’t half asleep or heavily intoxicated?” Peter finishes. 

The guy smiles, and faint dimples press into his cheeks. “I guess I was gonna say people who’ve come out for some decent predawn coffee—the other places open at this time have pure trash. But that works, too. I’m Stiles, by the way,” he adds.

The coffee, in fact, was a special request of Peter’s back when they bought this place. He hadn’t cared enough to get involved in the minutiae of the menu changes during the takeover, but he can’t stand for the thinly spiced water that passes for coffee elsewhere. Instead, he’d demanded the import of a full-bodied blend from Sumatra that actually tastes like it once had a former life as coffee beans. The werewolf hums, pleased, and cocks his head. “Peter.”

Stiles leans against the wooden siding of the opposite booth. “Peter. What brings you here?”

“Seems like as good a place as any to work,” Peter replies evasively. 

To anyone else, this would probably seem odd. It’s too loud here for most people to concentrate, and the lights radiate a touch too much crimson to make reading easy on the eye. Even so, it’s somehow always worked for Peter. (Aside from the fact that the Hale family owns this diner, making it a convenient and relatively secure work- and meeting place.) Stiles only nods soberly, as if it makes perfect sense. “What line of work are you in?”

Peter’s smile is sharp. “Finance,” he responds at last.

Stiles blinks in surprise, as Peter’s tone makes it clear that he’s lying. He doesn’t call Peter on it, though, and his expression instead settles into one of amusement. “Right on.”

He has a cute nose, Peter decides, which is a string of words he’s never thought about anyone before in his life. “And you?”

“I was told there were good curly fries here,” Stiles replies, shrugging one shoulder. “And I was _not_ disappointed.”

“And I assume you’re here...studying?” Peter asks, glancing at the backpack slung on Stiles’s shoulder. “What subject?”

Stiles pauses, and then he replies, “Latin.” It’s not a lie—his brisk heartbeat doesn’t stutter—but he says it in the same tone as Peter’s, a tone that tells the werewolf this isn’t the whole truth. 

A curious sense of intrigue washes over Peter, and he finds that he likes the wolfish smile on the boy’s face. It’s an odd feeling. He leans back to regard Stiles in full. 

Stiles, however, seems to take the movement as a sign of disinterest, or perhaps a dismissal, because his smile falters. His heart jumps to double time.

“So, anyway. I’m sure you’re probably busy, and time is money and all that. Especially for, like, finance guys. So, uh, you’re probably wondering why I’m over here. And look—I never do this, and I know that’s probably a cliche to even say _that_ , but um...I was wondering if I could give you my number?” 

The request is so unexpected that Peter can’t be sure what his face looks like. For a moment, he’s not even sure he’s understood correctly, in spite of his keen hearing, and it still takes him a moment to process the words. It’s been ages since he’s done anything besides impulsively jump into bed with anyone, he thinks, and he’s _certainly_ never saved their numbers in his phone.

He frowns for so long that Stiles takes a deep breath and adds in a rush: “Um, that way, it’s good for _you_ because you can decide if you’re into it and there’s no pressure or anything, and it’s good for _me_ because if you don’t reach out, I can just assume you’re, like, in a happily committed relationship and it’s not because I’m super weird or unattractive. Plus, it means you can set up the terms of communication however you want, you know? ‘Cause I’m good with anything—call, text, if you want I can skype or email, you can send me a passenger pigeon or a dick pic for all I care—” 

Peter blinks, and Stiles freezes. His face looks just as surprised as Peter himself feels, and then it turns a charming shade of pink. “Not that, I mean—um, you would never send _me_ —not that I wouldn’t appreciate it, because you look like you’re probably packing...oh my god this is not how I pictured this going, _at all_.” His hands have come up to his forehead, and he studiously refuses to look Peter in the eye. Amusement pools deep in Peter’s chest. “Jesus H. Christ. I’m just gonna—” he jerks his thumb toward the door. “ _So_ sorry, uh...really. Enjoy—enjoy your night.”

He turns to go, and even his ears are flushed pink. It’s strangely endearing. Peter stares after him for a beat, finally surprising himself by calling out, “I was promised a number. Am I going to get it or not?”

Stiles turns back to him slowly. His eyebrows have climbed up his forehead, and he’s fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie. “You actually _want_ it? _Still?_ ” He looks perplexed, but when Peter gives no indication that he’s kidding, the corners of his lips slowly quirk upward. “What’s...what’s wrong with you?”

Peter’s eyes flit to the ceiling as he pulls out his phone. “I suppose you’ll have to find out.”

“Oh.” Stiles blinks, still looking a little wary, as if Peter might only be playing a trick. “Okay. Cool.” At last, he gingerly takes the proffered phone, typing out his name and number on the screen. “Especially ‘cause I like this place, and it woulda sucked to have to find some other 24-hour joint.”

The werewolf grunts. “It grows on you, doesn’t it?”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, weirdly enough. It’s homey.” He hands the phone back, pauses, then offers another half-shrug. He smiles again, and it’s not quite as uncertain this time. “I guess I’ll...see you around?”

“Not if I see you first,” Peter counters easily. From anyone else it might be just a bad line, but the Hale family has eyes and ears all over town. He’ll certainly be asking someone to let him know how the human before him is doing. 

Stiles seems to guess once more that there’s some subtle undercurrent to his words, but there’s no wariness on his face. He only quirks a brow as he heads for the door. “Maybe we’ll see,” he replies, and for the first time there’s something in his expression that might even be called dangerous—at least before it slips away beneath Stiles’s smile. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Peter returns. He stares at Stiles’s retreating back through the neon sign at the door, until the human fades into the dark space between the streetlights outside.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Headcanon: Stiles is a history/Latin student who dabbles in magecraft on the side, and he’s BFFs with secret-Banshee Lydia, who happens to be enamored with a certain blonde waitress (small world). Peter’s the enforcer of his tight-knit underground crime ring, but they could occasionally use some help keeping the Argents out of their territory—and Stiles turns out very willing to (and capable of) help out with that. And it’s a match made in hell, so they turn out to be murder husbands for life.~~
> 
> ~~...I’m not ever gonna write this story tho, I’m just leaving it here and walking quickly away :)~~
> 
> 7/24/2020 edit: Soooo this original note was a huge lie, because apparently “I’m not gonna write more of this” means “my brain will never let this go.” More is on the way, despite my best efforts lol.
> 
> Feel free to check out my [tumblr](https://aurevell.tumblr.com/) for random steter/sterek stuff also


End file.
